Paint For Me A Memory
by Neisha
Summary: Inu/Kag: One shot:  No portrait in the world could do to him what the mere sound of her voice could do.


Paint For Me A Memory

* * *

The room was small and dimly lit in candles. Flames flickered endlessly against the pale white walls; shadows danced to an unheard melody. Paintings stood silent in the serenity that surrounded him, each created by her hand, each holding images of the life they'd shared together.

His gaze moved from one image to another, stopping on one that spoke of a mother's adoration of her pup. She'd painted him through various stages of growth. The first depiction held the image of a bumbling kit, with riotous red hair and mischievous green eyes, sneaking pocky from an overly-stuffed yellow backpack. The painting's eyes stared back at him, and Inuyasha was taken back to a time when Shippo was the only rival he'd had for Kagome's attention, and he smiled.

The images shifted rapidly, one after another; games of tag shared with village children, moments spent practicing the fox-fire he'd since mastered. The final image portrayed a young demon standing proud against a background of blue flames. His riotous hair was now a curtain of shimmering red silk, his emerald gaze filled with knowledge.

The next image brought a pang of sadness to Inuyasha's heart. Withered and happy, Kaede knelt in the herb garden in their village, gray hair dusting over her shoulder, a small smile gracing her mouth. The black patch on her eye was barely visible, but Kagome had managed to capture the peace she felt in the other. With fingers half-buried in the dirt, Kaede lovingly picked the herbs that would bring the villagers under her care the medicine they might one day need.

They'd lost Kaede later that year. Kagome had captured the funeral pier they'd laid her on in yet another painting, Kaede's profile ghosting over the flames that carried her soul from its earthly bindings to the afterlife.

The next portrait was of the woman who'd become so special to Kagome, bound by her soul to a woman not of their time, sister to a woman not of her blood. Dressed in a flowing white kimono, Sango held a bouquet of cherry blossoms made by the same hands that had painted the scene by memory alone.

Standing beside Sango was the monk she'd married. Her adoring chocolate-brown gaze was lifted to meet the odd violet of his own, their love reflected for eternity by Kagome's hand. Inuyasha snickered in memory of the robes Miroku wore, and wondered idly if the man had kept them throughout the years as he had kept his own fire rat.

Kirara's painting was next, a depiction showing the neko youkai in various stages of transformation. Wide feline eyes watched something in the distance, fire licking over her paws in varying hues of reds and oranges, yellows and blues.

Moving further into the room, Inuyasha found the next set of portraits carefully arranged in the corner. This portrait portrayed Sesshoumaru sitting in silence beneath a wide starlit sky, Rin asleep within his sheltered embrace.

Beside the portrait was another, further ahead in time. Rin, no longer a child, was again held in the demon's embrace, the demon caressing her cheek. Silver hair fell between them, Rin's own dark tresses tumbling over her shoulder to meld seamlessly with that of her demon Lord.

Inuyasha remembered the night he and Kagome had stumbled upon the display. It was the first time Sesshoumaru had confessed his love for the woman who'd trailed tirelessly behind him for years. He and Kagome had backed away quietly, neither wanting to disturb the moment.

Inuyasha let his eyes move from one painting to the next, memories brought to life by each image he passed. He could see none of himself, nor any of the woman whose hands had lovingly created the images of their pack.

Then he saw them- images of him during some forgotten battle, sword transformed, blood splashed over his exposed skin. Another pictured his demon half, fierce and proud, with gleaming fangs and two single stripes cutting over his cheek bones. Yet another depiction was of him in the bath, water glistening off naked skin, his long, steel-gray hair draped over the edge of the tub. The image brought a blush to his face and he quickly averted his eyes to the next painting.

It was a portrait of their wedding day and the kiss they'd shared once they'd been declared husband and wife. Several smaller paintings followed, all various moments in their shared life, and the further his gaze traveled, the more risqué the images became.

Pushed back into the furthest recesses of the room were images of their more intimate moments together, but it was the last that held his focus. It showed the night he'd made Kagome his; he'd given her his heart and she'd given him her innocence. It was the night they'd found forever and Inuyasha smiled at the memory. There had been so many emotions that night: love and patience, fevered desire and incredible need.

He could still hear her voice echoing through his mind, could still remember the way her scent shifted as they touched; warm hands danced over sweat-dampened skin, kisses were given and stolen as they came together that first time. He could still remember her scent and the way it shifted when he'd emptied himself inside her. He'd been so pleased with the change, knowing anyone with a nose and half a brain (Koga) would know who she was mated to-

"I want to paint you, again."

Inuyasha turned, his body reacting instantly to the vision standing in the doorway. She wore nothing but his yukata, untied and left open. Inuyasha could see the curve of her breasts, the valley of her cleavage, and the swell of his unborn child in her womb.

"Let's make some memories, Inuyasha." He smiled, eyes trailing over the soft lines of his wife's body. Oh, they'd be up late making memories all right.

Making his way toward his wife, Inuyasha wondered when Kagome would paint herself, swollen with his child. Dropping to his knees before her, Inuyasha kissed her stomach, his smile growing broader as he made his way up her rib cage and toward her breast. Her soft intake of breath, and the swift pace of her heart, heated his blood, but it was his name on her lips that was his undoing.

No portrait in the world could do to him what the mere sound of her voice could do.

* * *

This one shot was written for the prompt on lj, Up Late.

I want to thank psycochick 32, Rosie B, and landofthekwt for their nominations of Deserted, With Me, and Illusory respectively at the IYFG. I can't thank you enough! I also want to thank quirkyslayer and kanna3738 for nominating Illusory and anothercrazycatlady for nominating Voyeur over at the Feudal Association.

And thank you to everyone who voted- you guys are so awesome!


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